


All I Want For Christmas

by fairylightsinoctober



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Stucky - Freeform, help these precious children, i'm really bad at tags um, pre-war stucky, sorta - Freeform, they're so in love but so in denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8680567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylightsinoctober/pseuds/fairylightsinoctober
Summary: All Bucky wants for Christmas is a picture-perfect Christmas for Steve, and maybe a new heater for the apartment. All Steve wants for Christmas is for Bucky to stress less about a picture-perfect Christmas. Oh, and less pneumonia than last year. That'd also be nice.





	1. Cold, Quiet Days

Bucky knocked the snow off his heavy work boots before walking into his and Steve's crappy Brooklyn apartment. He was freezing and half-numb from the cold, but he'd happily picked up a few extra hours at work. He wasn't going to let another Christmas go by without a proper gift for Steve. Oh, right, and they still needed money to fix the broken heater. Again. Great. "Hey, Stevie. You still awake?" He called out softly, nudging the door shut with his foot as he walked inside.

 

Steve was curled up on the couch, wrapped in every blanket in the apartment, save for the one that was still resting in a crumpled heap on Bucky’s bed. He’d accidentally dozed off while trying to wait up for Bucky to come home, the beginnings of illness making him more exhausted than usual. When Bucky called out, he startled awake, groggy blue eyes looking to the shivering figure in the doorway. “I’m… Yeah, I’m awake,” He muttered softly, sitting up and running a hand through his tousled blond hair. “What took you so long?”

 

“They were practically begging me to stay,” Bucky replied without missing a beat. Okay, so the opposite was true; he’d been begging everyone to let him work their shifts, and borrowing money from anyone who would lend. But knowing that would only make Steve worry more, so he’d keep his mouth shut on that for the time being. He’d pay everybody back after Christmas, after they’d gotten a new heater, all the ingredients for Steve’s ma’s Christmas cookie recipes, and Christmas presents for Steve. Bucky knew how much Steve loved Christmas, even if he always insisted that he was fine without the decorations, or the food, or the presents.

 

Steve stretched, his back and shoulders popping loudly, before standing up. He kept the thickest blanket wrapped around himself like a cape as he walked into the kitchen. “Well, I made soup. Sit down and get yourself warmed up, and I’ll get you a bowl,” Steve drawled, his sleepiness accentuating his born-and-raised Brooklyn accent. For once, Bucky didn’t feel like arguing, and he made his way over to the couch on bare, numb feet. His whole body felt tingly and numb, though the temperature inside the apartment really wasn’t much better than outside. “I swear, I’m going to get the parts to fix that heater, here in the next couple days,” He said, for what had to be the fifth or sixth time that month.

 

“’S not so bad, really… We’ve got plenty of blankets. I don’t mind,” Steve replied from the kitchen, sniffling softly. He stood on his tiptoes to grab a bowl from the cupboard, then turned back to the simmering pot on the stove. It wasn’t anything fancy – Steve really wasn’t much of a cook – but it was a healthy-looking soup. Potatoes, carrots, onions, and some leftover chicken, all combined in the broth. Simple enough to make, and warm enough to keep them somewhat toasty in their freezing-cold home. He ladled a hearty helping into Bucky’s bowl, rummaging through the utensil drawer for a spoon before walking over to hand him the food.

 

 “Thanks, Steve,” Bucky said, taking the bowl and spoon. It felt blisteringly hot in his still-cold hands, so he held the dish by the very edges, careful not to spill any over himself. Steve nestled himself back into his pile of blankets on the opposite side of the couch, before glancing back over to his friend. “How was your day? You’re home late again… I thought you weren’t working any extra shifts tonight.” He said, picking at the corner of his wool blanket as he spoke.

 

“Long. Cold. The usual… And I wasn’t planning on it, but Harvey needed me to cover him,” Bucky lied easily, bringing a spoonful of soup to his mouth. After chewing the bite of potato and swallowing, he continued. “His dame’s sick as a dog, he had to rush home and take care of her.” It wasn’t a very unbelievable story, but still yet, Bucky stared down at his soup instead of looking to Steve as he told it. Somehow, those bright blue eyes always managed to see through his fibs if they made eye contact.

 

Luckily, Steve seemed to believe it, and he simply nodded. “Well, guess that’s nice of you… You’re working yourself to death though, Buck.” He paused for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say what he was thinking. “…You aren’t going to work Christmas, are you?” He asked reluctantly, almost afraid of hearing the answer. Christmas always reminded him of his mother, and he’d hate to spend it all alone in a cold and dreary apartment.

 

Sarah Rogers always made delicious cakes and cookies, and put up a decorated tree, and gave beautifully-wrapped, thoughtful presents to Steve, as well as a few of her closest friends. And, of course, Bucky. Even when they were little, Steve and Bucky were absolutely inseparable. Sarah practically considered him as her own son. He’d always get his share of the cookies, and a sweet gift from Sarah, just as Steve did. But now, with just the two of them, Christmases tended to be a little drearier. There was rarely time or money for a tree, or decorations of any sort, really, or even to make and decorate the cookies. Of course Steve would never complain outwardly, but he missed proper Christmas celebrations more than he’d let on.

 

“Nah, not on Christmas. Can’t work on Christmas.” Bucky shook his head, shoveling another spoonful of warm broth and vegetables into his mouth. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d tasted the warm food. Though he’d swear up and down he packed a sandwich, he’d actually made do with a couple of Lucky Strikes in place of lunch that day. A smoke or two (or three) was cheaper than lunch, and a couple of smoke breaks took less time than one lunch break. Of course, Steve could occasionally smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke on him, but Bucky made an effort to never smoke when he’d soon be around Steve. The smoke smell would always launch him into a coughing fit, if not another one of his asthma attacks. Even if it didn’t cause a reaction, Steve complained about making the apartment smell like an ashtray, and he’d at least keep it outside.

 

Steve was glad that he didn’t have to talk Bucky out of working right through the holidays. His long work hours were already worrying Steve more and more, but he knew there was really no point in arguing over it. In all honesty, a little extra money for heat and rent sounded like a dream to Steve. He only wished that he could get a proper job and help out more. But the tickle in his throat, his running nose, and his slowly-rising fever were ever-present reminders of why he was always stuck at home during the cold winter months. His tendency for sickness – and lack of a proper immune system to fight said sicknesses – ruled out any chance of outdoor work before February or March, at least. And his slender, weak physique wouldn’t allow much strenuous physical labor, so his options were rather limited. Sure, he took up little odd jobs now and then, but Steve’s work was never a reliable source of income. Not like Bucky always was. He felt guilty, knowing that the burden of most of their financial needs rested solidly on Bucky’s shoulders, but he didn’t know what to do yet. Typically, he mostly stuck to doing what he could around the house, all the domestic chores, cleaning, and cooking. At least then he could feel moderately helpful.

 

The pair fell mostly silent, with Bucky eating spoonful after spoonful of soup, and Steve trying desperately not to sniffle every three seconds. If Bucky caught on to the fact that he was sick, that’d only give him another thing to worry about. The silence wasn’t tense or awkward, though, as the two were so used to each other's company. It was just comfortable, falling into their usual routine. Steve would serve up some warm food and ask about Bucky's day, Bucky would usually tell him it was some variation of "too long" or "freezing", and then they'd soon retire to their own cold, quiet beds, in their own cold, quiet bedrooms.

 

After Bucky finished the soup, he stood up, cracking his back as he stretched. He took the bowl and spoon, and gathered the dishes Steve had used for cooking, before filling the sink with warm, sudsy water and starting to wash the dishes. It didn't take long, and soon he was drying and putting away the final dish. Steve reluctantly left his mass of blankets on the sofa when he heard the water turn off and shuffled into the kitchen. He placed a lid on the soup pot and put away the leftovers. They'd heat up fine for his lunch tomorrow, surely.

 

When Bucky finished tidying up the kitchen -- with Steve's help, of course -- he yawned and stretched once more. "I think I'm gonna hit the hay... My shift starts at six tomorrow," He mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "G'night, Stevie." Steve looked over to Bucky, giving a nod and a little smile. "Night, Buck. Sleep tight," He replied, hanging the dishcloth on the oven door handle. With a little mock-salute, Bucky shuffled off tiredly to brush his teeth and wash his face. Then he walked into his bedroom, flopping down onto his rickety old bed.

 

From Bucky's bedroom, he could hear the sounds of Steve quietly tidying up the apartment. Footsteps echoed around as he swept and decluttered and dusted, then there was the accompanying hacking and sneezing as he stirred up a particularly nasty patch of dust. A few minutes later, Steve's light footsteps could be heard leading into the bathroom, and the tap ran water loudly as he brushed his teeth. Bucky fully relaxed as he soon heard the telltale 'click' of Steve's bedroom door closing, signifying the fact that he was actually going to bed. After that, it took mere moments for Bucky to drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep, his exhausted mind ready and eager to catch a little shut-eye before the next early morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the first chapter, everybody! I'll have chapter two up in the next couple of days, so subscribe for more! In the meantime, comments and kudos are appreciated :D I hope you're enjoying these two dorks as much as I am already.


	2. Leftover Soup and Beautiful Dreams

The next morning, Bucky awoke promptly to the sound of his ringing alarm clock. He rolled over with a groan, hitting the clock blindly till the obnoxious ringing stopped. It must’ve woken Steve up every morning -- the walls were paper thin and Steve was a horribly light sleeper -- but he never complained. Bucky rolled out of bed, running a hand through his hair as he stood and stretched. After getting dressed in his old, worn-out work clothes, he padded across the cold floor to the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee brewing and popping bread into the toaster before heading to the bathroom. Glancing into the mirror, he gave himself a once-over inspection. Stubble was lightly scattered across his chin, cheeks, and neck, and he finally had to acknowledge the slowly-forming dark circles and bags under his tired eyes. He stopped to stare at himself for only a few seconds, not liking the obvious signs of fatigue that Steve had already been seeing in him for awhile. Instead of continuing the depressing self-inspection, he grabbed the tube of shaving cream from the side of the sink, lathering up his face and neck before taking his razor. He shaved slowly, careful of his delicate skin under the scruffy stubble. By the time he wiped away the residual cream, he was perfectly fresh-shaven and already looking ten times more charming and awake. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair into place, before going back into the kitchen.

 

Keeping his actions quiet, so as not to further disturb Steve, Bucky poured his coffee into a thermos and grabbed the toast. As he was buttering the bread, he noticed a note lying atop the coffee pot. " _Check the fridge. Don't leave without lunch this time_ ", was scribbled in Steve's lopsided attempt at proper cursive script. Okay, so apparently he had caught on to the fact that Bucky hadn't been packing lunches after all. Still, Bucky smiled a little as he opened the refrigerator to see a brown paper bag with his name on it. Steve must've stayed up to pack him a lunch. In most respects, Steve was like a nagging mother or housewife. But Bucky couldn't find it in himself to think of it as annoying. Instead, he hunted down a pen, scrawling out a quick " _Thanks, pal_ " on the bottom of Steve's note. He stuck the toast in his mouth, so as to have both hands free to slip on his jacket and shoes. His wallet and key went into his pocket, and he grabbed the thermos and paper bag before rushing out the door.

 

It was a long, cold, and uneventful work day for Bucky, as usual, but it was brightened up by the addition of a simple ham sandwich and an apple, as packed by Steve. That reminded Bucky, the pantry and refrigerator were running a bit bare. He'd have to pick up some groceries after payday tomorrow. And then he could get the Christmas cookie ingredients without Steve fussing over the cost of the extra groceries. That sounded like a good plan, Bucky decided as he walked home. The only other interesting point of his day -- one he wouldn't be telling Steve about – was the argument with his boss.

 

Of course, Bucky hadn't want to anger him with the request of taking Christmas off right before he was scheduled several double-shifts. But it was getting close, only three days to Christmas, and if he waited much longer, he'd end up with the choice between working through the holiday or losing his job. That would definitely ruin the celebration for Steve. But... Well, the boss hadn't exactly taken too kindly to his idea. Sure, Bucky was a strong and reliable worker, but he was easily replaced. Despite practically begging to be rescheduled, Bucky was still marked down to work seven AM through ten PM on Christmas Day, with threats of being fired if he didn’t show up. But Steve didn't have to know about that yet. Bucky was still hoping to find somebody to cover his shift. Or, if worst came to worst... Sure, he could claim he got sick or something, and simply not show up. Bucky pondered over all of this as he shuffled through the light dusting of snow on the ground, careful not to slip on the icy sidewalk.

 

He shivered at the difference in temperature as he walked into the apartment, actually taking the time to hang up his coat, for once. "Hey, I'm home," Bucky called out, frowning as he didn't see Steve sitting in his usual spot on the sofa. His fears were confirmed when Steve only got midway through a "hey" in return before he was interrupted by a harsh coughing fit. Was he going to be sick on Christmas again? Last year, Steve had had pneumonia. The year before, a terrible stomach flu. The year before, a horrible asthma attack on Christmas morning. It had become sort of a tradition. Bucky kicked off his shoes by the door before he went to check on Steve. As guessed, he was curled up in bed with several extra blankets, nose already red and raw from sniffling and wiping at it. His always-pale skin was even whiter than usual, which made the dark circles under his eyes, as well as his red nose, stand out even more starkly. "...H-hey, Buck. Welcome home," He croaked, cringing a little at the sound of his own voice.

 

Bucky sighed, crossing the room and pressing the back of his hand to Steve's forehead. As suspected, he was already running a fever. Poor Steve with his pitiful lack of an immune system. Despite what Steve may have thought, Bucky never thought of him as a burden. Sure, medication -- and days off work, sitting right by Steve to make sure he kept breathing -- could get costly, but Bucky wouldn't dream of leaving his best friend on his own to deal with that. He always tried to take care of Steve as well as he could, with their limited money and resources. Honestly, he blamed himself for Steve getting sick this time. Of course he felt responsible, after leaving Steve in a cold apartment with that damn broken heater.

 

Steve tried to pull away from Bucky's touch, knowing he was already worrying over him. He hated when Bucky worried, especially when Steve was trying so hard not to make a big deal of it. Unfortunately, even when he wasn't so obviously sick and lying in a lump of blankets, Bucky had gotten quite good at recognizing the telltale signs of sickness. "I-I'm fine, I swear. Just a li'l cold," He insisted in a stuffy, nasally voice. Bucky shook his head, obviously not convinced. "Have you been drinking enough water? And have you eaten today?"

 

There was really no use in arguing, so Steve simply huffed -- nearly, but not quite launching himself into another coughing fit -- and shook his head. "No... Don't feel like eating," He mumbled. Bucky ran a hand through his hair, looking over the pitiful, blanket-cloaked form of Steve Roger. An excuse about not being hungry obviously wasn’t going to cut it for him. "I'm going to warm up some leftover soup, and get you some water. You better keep your ass right there in bed and rest, you hear me?" Bucky said, his tone every bit the scolding voice of a mother. He then turned and left for the kitchen, going to heat the soup and fetch the water.

 

Bucky pretended that he couldn't hear every sneeze and cough from Steve's room as he put the pot back on the stove, starting it heating before getting a glass of water from the tap. He leaned against the counter, waiting for only a couple of minutes before becoming impatient and getting a bowl and spoon from the cupboard. He poured the soup into the bowl, then tasted a bit to make sure that it was warm. Finding it satisfactory enough, he grabbed the water glass and headed back to Steve's room. "Eat and drink. Water first," Bucky instructed, handing Steve both the bowl and the glass, which he took gratefully.

 

"Thanks," Steve said softly, his voice too hoarse to want to protest much. Even if he wasn't hungry, he figured that the warm soup would feel soothing on his sore throat. He obediently sipped the water, setting it on the nightstand when he was finished. Then, slowly, he ate a few spoonfuls of soup. "...It's really not as bad as it looks." 

 

"Not as bad as it looks?" Bucky raised an eyebrow. "You seriously expect me to believe that?" He asked, rolling his eyes as he sat near the foot of Steve's bed. "Just shut up and eat your damn soup... You better not be sick on Christmas again. I'm taking the day off and everything." The half-teasing words from Bucky almost made Steve quirk a smile. "Right, I'll try... You got the day off for sure, right?" The smaller boy confirmed softly, looking over at his friend.

 

"Yeah, course I did. Less talking, more eating," Bucky replied easily, causing Steve to roll his eyes and shove another spoonful of reheated soup into his mouth. All of the vegetables were even more mushy and bland than when he'd made it, and it was altogether rather unappealing, but he wouldn't complain. For one, he was the one who'd made it, and it wasn't like they had anything much more appetizing. Second, he'd do anything to make Bucky worry about him less, especially if it only meant having to eat a bowl of tasteless soup that he really had no appetite for. Soon enough, the bowl was empty and he was slowly sipping down some more water. "There we go. Honestly, Rogers, I can't leave you alone for one day without you forgetting how to take care of yourself," Bucky teased, taking the empty bowl and spoon. "Really, though. If your fever's not down by tomorrow, or if you don't look any less dead by then, I'm stopping at the drugstore and getting you some medicine."

 

Steve wanted to argue with that, but he knew there was no point. He seriously doubted he'd be any better by the following morning, but it wasn't like he'd be able to talk Bucky out of his plan yet, so he simply nodded. "...Thanks, Buck. I'll be fine," He promised, pulling the blankets back up to his neck as Bucky stood up from the bed. Bucky gave a mock-salute, taking the bowl, spoon, and glass with him to the kitchen. He washed the bowl, spoon, and empty soup pot, then refilled the water glass and brought it back to Steve's bedside. By the time Bucky came back, however, Steve was already fast asleep and snoring. He smiled at the peaceful sight, sneaking into the room to set down the glass before leaving him to sleep.

 

What was it that Steve always did before going to bed every night? Bucky stopped, pondering that for a moment. With Steve sick, it seemed like a nice gesture to keep up whatever work that he did. However... Well, Bucky was ashamed to admit it, but he usually didn't put very much thought into what went on after he went to bed, aside from listening for Steve to brush his teeth and head to bed himself. It all just kind of got done without his supervision. Well, he might as well start with the basics. The kitchen was tidy, as they hadn't actually cooked that day. Then came sweeping and dusting, as Steve's nightly sneezing fit always reminded him. Bucky completed that rather quickly -- minus the sneezing fit -- then put away the broom and dustrag. He thought over the rest of the apartment. What else could possibly need cleaning? After another minute or two of deliberation, he gave up, making a mental note to thank Steve for doing most of the housework.

 

Bucky looked over the living room once more, seeing nothing standing out that needed cleaning or tidying, and then headed to the bathroom. He got washed up, drying his hair thoroughly after washing it, so as not to catch a cold in the chilly apartment overnight. Then he brushed his teeth, walked back to his room, and changed into pajamas. After checking on Steve one last time -- still wheezing, but really more _snoring_ , with a full glass of water on the bedside -- he went to bed, falling asleep quickly and peacefully.

 

Bucky had a beautiful dream. A dream of him and Steve, lying together on a picnic blanket on a grassy hill. The temperature was in the 70's or 80's, the sun was shining, and the birds were singing joyfully. Steve was grinning and drawing in his sketchbook, looking perfectly in place among the flowers and the animals and the cheerful sunshine. He was rambling on about something or another, something that Bucky couldn't quite pay attention to. He was distracted by the sparkle in Steve's baby blue eyes, the shine of his pale blond hair, the way he looked so bright and healthy and happy right there. Without thinking, he leaned forwards, his chapped lips barely brushing across Steve's soft, pale ones, a perfect, yet forbidden, yet _lovely_ kiss, when --

 

His alarm clock rang, jolting him out of his perfect dreamland and back into the cold, dingy reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least Bucky can dream, right? :') And coincidentally, I woke up sick halfway through writing this chapter. Sure wish I had a Bucky to take care of me... Either way, kudos and/or comments and subscribes are encouraged and appreciated! Thanks for the support already guys! :D


	3. Extra Shifts and Bitter Medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know it's been FOREVER since I updated this, but tell me what you think! :) I found this half-finished chapter while I was updating my new Guardians of the Galaxy fic! I'll try to update both as frequently as possible, it's SUMMER so I actually have free time :P Enjoy! :)

Bucky groaned, jolting out of his perfect dream and rolling over to slap blindly at his alarm clock. He’d kill for five more minutes, if only to let the dream progress a little farther, but now he was awake, and it was time to get ready for work. He went through his same old routine, almost on autopilot. Just before leaving, Bucky crept down the hall, peeking into Steve’s room to check on him. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Steve’s hair was a mess, and his breathing was labored and wheezy. A thin trail of drool was running down his chin, a product of his mouth-breathing all night long. On top of that, a stuffy nose had only heightened Steve’s usual snoring issue. Nonetheless, Bucky couldn’t help the warm fondness that he felt at the sight. He wished he could stick around to take care of Steve all day, but the clock was ticking, and he was making every effort not to piss his boss off before Christmas. So, after taking just another moment to watch Steve’s peaceful sleep, Bucky turned, pulling his scarf more snugly around his neck, and headed down the hall and out of the apartment.

 

The walk down to the docks was long, dreary, and cold. The sun had just risen, and Bucky couldn’t be certain whether the gray glow was from clouds or smog. Along his path were a few women and children begging for money, either for themselves or for some charity or another, and Bucky resisted the bitter urge to scoff at them. He didn’t even have enough to keep him and Steve consistently fed and in a warm home, he definitely didn’t have any to give to anyone else. Of course, Steve would still give some spare change or a dollar to anybody who said ‘please’, but he didn’t have the same immunity to puppy dog eyes that Bucky did. The only puppy dog look that worked on him was Steve’s, when his blue eyes looked so hopeful and his mischievous smirk was barely hidden behind a pout of pink lips.

 

By the time Bucky arrived at work, he was pretty sure he couldn’t feel his toes inside his heavy, worn work boots. But numb was better than cold, he supposed, and complaining wouldn’t do him any good. So he kept his mouth shut and clocked in, starting his long work day. He’d never be glad that Steve was sick, but he was grateful for the fact that he hopefully wouldn’t notice much if Bucky put in a few extra hours again. He was going to replace that damn heater by Christmas if it killed him. Despite Steve’s lack of complaining, he knew that he must be miserable, especially as his body temperature ran a little on the cold side anyways. Even if he couldn’t get Steve a proper present – especially because he couldn’t get Steve a proper present – he was at least going to make sure that they were warm on Christmas Day.

 

The day slugged on as usual, with Bucky cursing the cold aloud at least once an hour, till he finally clocked out. The sun was setting earlier and earlier, and it’d already been pitch black for an hour or two by the time he was picking up his bi-weekly paycheck and heading on his way. It wasn’t an especially large sum, but he did appreciate the bonus from his extra shifts. He shoved the check into the pocket of his coat with frozen, gloved fingers, and headed to the bank to cash it. If he was going to make it before they closed for the weekend, he’d have to hurry. As it turned out, he made it precisely eight minutes before the doors were due to be locked, and he left with a small pocketful of cash in place of the check. He’d counted and recounted it twice, mouthing the numbers to himself, then braced himself for the cold winter air before leaving the heated bank building.

 

The walk to the drugstore took perhaps ten minutes, but he lollygagged on the way, stopping to peek into one of the shops. There was a beautiful art set he wanted to get for Steve, an expensive set of watercolor paints and a nice sketchbook. He’d been trying to scrounge up enough, pinching pennies here and there, and he’d almost saved up enough, if he emptied the stash under his mattress. Unfortunately, that was before the heater decided to croak. It made him angry, knowing that Steve deserved the world and being unable to get him even a sketchbook. Unable to do anything productive about this anger, Bucky just huffed to himself, kicked a pebble lying on the sidewalk, and continued on to the drugstore.

 

Bucky shuffled through the drugstore aisles, looking for one of the cheaper medication options. After only a couple of minutes, he found a familiar blue bottle with a generic label. He brought it up to the counter, fishing in his coat pockets for the money. “Cold snap got you sick?” The clerk asked conversationally, glancing up at the younger man after he checked the price tag on the bottle. “Nah, my pal’s got himself a bad cold. Too sick to go out and get the damn stuff himself,” Bucky replied, pretending to be far more annoyed and far less worried than he was. He handed over the cash, and the clerk made change and wrote up a receipt, giving both back to Bucky. Bucky stuffed both into his pocket, and then took the brown paper bag containing the medicine.

 

The next stop was the hardware store two blocks down, and Bucky walked at double his usual pace to make it there faster. He was itching to get home, dose Steve up with medicine, then wrap himself up in blankets. Luckily, he’d already fixed the heater twice over in the last year, so he knew exactly what the problem was and where to find the parts. Aisle six, middle of the row, priced far too expensive for his wallet not to groan. If it was only him in the apartment, the purchase would’ve waited a couple more weeks. But there was no way he was letting Steve stay sick and freezing. The hardware store was warm, bright, and smelled of sawdust, and Bucky was initially hesitant to leave after completing the purchase. But, nonetheless, he trudged back outside, shuffling along the sidewalk in the direction of the apartment. His already-meager paycheck was feeling lighter and lighter, and Bucky was already mentally changing his Christmas plans. Maybe he couldn’t afford to buy all the ingredients for Sarah Rogers’ Christmas cookies, and maybe they were going to end up with a shitty Christmas dinner, but he was at least going to find some gift for Steve. It was one of Steve’s favorite holidays, he knew – second only to Independence Day, which doubled as the blond’s birthday – and Bucky wasn’t going to let it go by entirely without celebration.

 

 When he reached the apartment, Bucky opened his mouth to call out his usual greeting, but stopped himself just before shouting. He’d remembered that Steve was sick, and hopefully asleep. But, not a moment later, he looked over to see a certain sickly blond on the sofa, his nose red as Rudolph’s and his forehead shiny with a layer of sweat. He’d been half-asleep, but had jolted awake at the sound of the door. “Buck, you’re b--” Steve started, cutting himself off with a smothered cough. “Back… I was about to go lookin’ for y--” And that was as far as he got before any attempt at speech dissolved into a harsh coughing fit. Bucky frowned, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth a little as he watched Steve’s thin, frail frame shake with every wracking cough. He hung his coat up and toed off his shoes, before going over to sit beside the blanket nest on the couch. Despite how badly he wanted to reach out and rub Steve’s back, he knew that his own body was cold as ice, so he made sure that he wasn’t touching Steve in any way.

 

Steve’s coughing fit eventually wound down, leaving the blond gasping for breath. He felt strangled, and he was always a little afraid that his faulty lungs would refuse to draw in another breath, but he tried to downplay the scenario as always. As soon as he could wheeze out any semblance of speech, he was reassuring Bucky. “’M fine. ‘M fine. Prom-promise.”  He stammered, leaning back against the couch and letting his eyes slip shut.

 

Bucky hardly look convinced, but he nodded anyways. “C’mon, Stevie. I got’cha something at the drugstore,” He said, reaching into the paper bag and pulling out a familiar brown bottle. Steve opened his eyes, scrunching up his nose in distaste as he saw the medicine. Not only was it expensive, it tasted horrible. Bucky still remembered once, when Steve was _particularly_ fever-loopy, when he’d had to pin him down and practically force the stuff down his throat. An angry and feverish Irish kid was a force to be reckoned with, and, listen, Steve had started it. Bucky had earned a black eye for his trouble, and he’d told all the guys at work it was from a bar fight instead.

 

Steve frowned, pulling the blankets around tighter around himself. “Y’shouldn’t’ve, Buck. That stuff… it costs too much,” He shook his head and sighed. “…One tablespoon or two?” He added, already resigned to his fate. Bucky was relieved that it wouldn’t take much arguing, and he decided to disregard Steve’s first comment. “Two. I’ll get the spoon,” He announced, standing up and going to the kitchen. He opened a drawer, plucked a tablespoon from inside, then headed back to sit by Steve.

 

Steve winced again as Bucky cracked the seal on the bottle and poured the first spoonful of the thick, murky syrup. The texture always managed to coat his throat and choke or gag him, and the pungent bitter-yet-metallic smell was even more off-putting. He reached up to take the spoon, but Bucky saw the tremor in his hands and shook his head. “Open,” He insisted, holding one hand underneath the spoon to catch any drips. Steve opened his mouth obediently, and somehow swallowed without gagging as Bucky spoon-fed him the syrup.

 

“See? Not so bad. One more,” Bucky said, nodding a little as he poured out another. Steve opened his mouth again, and one more spoonful went down the hatch. His face screwed up at the bitter taste, and he let out a pitiful groan of pain and disgust. Bucky stood up, shaking his head as he walked into the kitchen. “Hold on, Stevie, I’ll get’cha some water,” He promised, doing just as he said. Steve eagerly drank down half the glass, gasping in a quick breath after chugging it. With horrible congestion added to his already-pathetic lungs, he was barely getting enough breath. “Thanks, Buck,” He wheezed, licking his lips in a fruitless attempt at getting rid of the taste on his tongue.

 

“No problem, pal. I’m gonna get you some soup, too,” Bucky said, purposely phrasing it as a statement instead of an option. Besides the fact that their cabinets were growing bare, Bucky wasn’t exactly a master chef, so he didn’t think that he should try to cook something new. Anyways, sick people were supposed to live off soup, right? At least that’s what he told himself to keep from feeling useless or guilty over it. He put away the medicine and then went to heat the soup. However, by the time he’d heated the bowlful in a dingy little saucepan, Steve was fast asleep on the couch.

 

Bucky gave a small smile, deciding not to wake him. Instead, he took the soup as his own supper. It was more watery than it was broth-y, and the ingredients were becoming less and less identifiable by the day, but it was food nonetheless. Bucky had learned long ago not to complain when you had food on the table, whatever it may be. He finished his soup, slurping the last bit. His and Steve’s mothers were probably both rolling in their graves at the horrific manners, and he swore he saw Steve twitch in his sleep, but he didn’t mind. After bringing the bowl and spoon to the kitchen sink, he returned back to Steve.

 

It took a moment to work up the courage to risk waking him, but Bucky managed to pick Steve up bridal-style and carry him to his room. First he nudged the door open with his foot, then he walked inside to lay Steve on the bed. He pulled the covers over the tiny, shivering form, and Bucky dared to softly smooth back a few locks of blond hair before leaving the room.

 

It was late, and he was bone-tired, so Bucky didn’t bother to do any sort of tidying-up around the place. He made it through about an hour of fiddling with the heater – managing to get it disassembled and almost-kinda-sorta reassembled – before realizing that he was nodding off on his feet. He set aside the tools and pieces of heater, then went to brush his teeth and wash his face. Finally, he lugged his heavy, exhausted body into his room, peeled out of his workclothes and changing into pajamas, and collapsed onto his squeaky mattress. He was fast asleep before two minutes could pass by, and he slept even more peacefully than poor drugged Stevie.  

 


End file.
